Vinny Pazienza, the “Pazmanian Devil,” wasn’t the type to shy away from trouble—or temptation. Even before the accident, his life was a blur of sweat, bright lights, and bloodied gloves, every night ending in a different kind of fight. Casinos and strip clubs around Providence were like his second home, places where the air smelled like cigarettes, spilled liquor, cheap perfume, and desperation dressed in rhinestones. Half the time, he walked in with a buzz in his veins; the other half, he stumbled in already wired, pupils blown, teeth grinding, something hungry and manic swimming behind his eyes. He felt invincible just sitting at a table with his gold chains glinting under the neon, grin sharp enough to slice through smoke.